“So how was your day?” (Dear.)
“It was fine.”
I stared at him with bewilderment. “Mine was fine too. Dandy really.” This was how he was going to treat me after all we’d shared? How naïve I’d been; just because we’d overcome our sexual hurdles didn’t mean we could overcome our emotional ones too.
“Good.” He turned away, removing his jacket and holster.
I got the sense that he was trying to distance himself. And if I were paranoid, I would even have said that he was . . . uneasy around me.
After we’d gotten on the same page at last? That couldn’t be right. Forcing a laugh, I said, “Have you been avoiding me today?”
“No,” he answered, but he was twirling that ring.
Chapter 38
“You’re quiet,” Sevastyan remarked.
“Just thinking.” I stared out the limo window as we navigated the streets of Paris, passing lines of flickering gas lamps and chestnut trees. He’d said he had a surprise for me tonight, some unspecified destination.
It’d been four days since the club, and while Sevastyan and I had continued to make progress in bed, we’d been stymied in other areas. Namely: every single one.
We’d crested that night, and now seemed to be bottoming out.
“You’re pensive.” He drummed his tattooed fingers on the armrest. “I’ve never seen you so.”
“Guess I have a lot on my mind.” Misgivings. They were flooding in.
There was no denying it any longer—Sevastyan was avoiding me during the days.
Which was so different from the nights, when he would spoil me with pleasure, commanding me, guiding each interlude. Again and again, he’d demonstrated that our kinks were breathlessly well matched.
As promised, he’d had a collection of tools and gear delivered. It came stored in a sizable wardrobe—basically a BDSM closet. Though he hadn’t broken out any hard-core gear yet—true to his word to take things more slowly—he had used different toys on me.
He seemed fascinated by my orgasms: how quickly he could force one from me, how long he could deny me, until I was pleading for permission.
At night, he was perfection. But during the day, if he was around, he was quiet and closed off. Which sucked in more than one way. Sevastyan was pressing for more sexual vulnerability from me, an ever deeper surrender, which left me raw the next day—just in time for him to be an ass.
Like catching a fly ball—with my face.
He drummed his fingers again. That drum drum drum was grating on my nerves. The night of the club, we’d meshed seamlessly. Now friction chafed between us.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” he said.
Oh, that was rich. “No hint of where we’re going?” I asked, deflecting, letting him know how it felt.
“I meant this as a surprise.”
Another sex club? Not really in the mood, Sevastyan. Yet I had to admit he’d put my curiosity on a slow boil. “For someone who hates surprises, you like delivering them well enough.”
“Would you rather have stayed in? It is getting late.”
My emotions were in such tumult that I might’ve balked at going with him, except for two things: I was desperate to get out of the house. And earlier, he’d acted differently with me.
When he’d returned from his meeting, he’d taken me in his arms without a word and held me like I was the only thing keeping him afloat. Like he was crossing a finish line to reach me.
It was so confusing!
He exhaled a long breath. “Sometimes you’re an utter mystery to me.” If he kept drumming his fingers, I was going to snap them like dry kindling.